and they will never look back
by n i g h t s t a r d u s t
Summary: Regret will play no part here. Mello, Matt, Near, alone and grown up.


**and they will never look back**

* * *

Mello is fourteen years old (almost fifteen, he will protest, like a child) and he is outside the gate.

Pale winter sunlight drifts /_yes, that's the right word for it, drifts/_ in fluttering candlelike reflections down to earth. For a moment, Mello can almost believe that he'll touch the light, that he can close his fist around it and snuff it out, feel the slip of it implode in his palm. Then he reminds himself not to get fanciful—this isn't the time for it—and takes in his surroundings, just a step outside the gate of Wammy's House. Before him is a salt-cracked grey asphalt road, winding about into the distance. There are no cars here, no pollution to taint the sunlight old and dry and musty. Just a road, and snow-cleaned air, so cold it hurts to breathe.

Mello closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath anyway.

Imprinted in the hazy space behind his eyelids is what will greet him if he turns around. The road, straightening and widening, the gate _/if he steps back just a little bit, he will feel the gate hard against his back, but he will not, he will not go back, only forward/ _with its wrought, twisted iron, and then familiar red bricks and tall latched windows and everything that he shouldn't already miss but does. He opens his eyes, and his peripheral vision shown him white, white snow. There are no footprints here, no marks to dress the snow in dirt and crisscrossing patterns and childhood. No bricks, no gate. Mello exhales, chases away the nostalgia simmering behind his eyelids. There is no space for that in a world as screeching and fiery and crimson-charcoal as Mello's. He will not allow it.

_And oh, _he thinks, _don't we all know the stories. Some kid leaves for college or some such nonsense and doesn't look back at the tearfully waving parents. Well, shit, because there _are_ no parents behind me now. I'm a freaking orphan, that's a freaking orphanage, and if I wanted to miss that red-brick institution I wouldn't be outside the gate. God, if you're going to weave sappy stuff like 'I should've looked back' into my life then you can dream on. I am Mihael goddamn Keehl and I will never look back. _

* * *

Matt's always believed that 'you are what you are and screw the rest'. So he doesn't mind being Third best at the orphanage. Really, he doesn't mind at all. Mello is Second and Near is First and they are both better than him for reasons he can't control. Besides, Matt is best out of the limelight assisting someone who burns brighter or runs faster. In his world, the best enemies are the digital ones trapped inside a screen, the artificial light that makes them _/them isn't just the enemies, it's Matt himself/ _visible tinted orange by his goggles. Third is a good, safe, comfortable position to occupy.

_No_, he reminds himself, _I am First_. _Now that Mello is gone and Near is gone I am First_._ God, Mello would've been proud. He was always Second. Hah, if he were still around he'd be First. Would he be happy?_

But humbug, Mello is what Mello is and screw the rest. He's Matt's best friend _/well, really, he's Matt's only friend and vice versa/_ and he is sparks and charisma, the burned-out nub of a cigarette just before it extinguishes, and Mello is so goddamn addictively unpredictable. He'd left without even a goodbye, leaving the orphanage behind like so much powdered snow, like it had never affected his life and any sort of regret could not be allowed—not even for your best friend.

That was the thing about Mello _/Shit, there are lots of things about Mello but whatever/_. The second you see that razor grin, the second you hear that laugh that's pure unfiltered _triumph_ you end up becoming the shadow fractured off his light, the black-brown-rust into his gold-scarlet-fuchsia. It was inevitable, and Matt kind of hates Mello for it, because without Mello he is lost, like a little boy fumbling about a dark room for a light switch that doesn't exist.

Well, it's not like there's anything else to do besides light another cigarette, see the glow of fire, and console himself with the curl of grey smoke and crumbling ash. So the lighter is flicked on with a practiced movement, and before Matt knows it, he is grinding the remains of comfort into the cold concrete floor. He'll be scolded for it if Roger finds out, though as of now, Matt doesn't give a damn.

So screw the rest.

* * *

The second L is incompetent, Near thinks.

Years and absolutely no progress. The first L, the _real_ L, had uncovered so much in such a short period of time, had gotten so close, but in the end he lost, toppled off his golden throne in a game that had been rigged from the beginning. L the First was always going to lose, and Near knows it. Kira had started with a whole new set of cards, a whole extra row of pawns on this chessboard, while L had to slowly add cards, fill his ranks one pawn at a time. Really, there was never a chance.

It doesn't matter, though. Near and Mello will catch L as he falls and give him a soft landing. They will push this imposter away and claim L's seat for themselves _/It's always them, them, because Near has a strong suspicion that quick-thinking L, decisive L, would not have dallied so long in his choice if together was not what he intended. And if Near is very honest with himself, he knows that together is what he, Near, wants/_.

Near looks at the spirals of dominoes he has set up around him. Casually, he knocks one over. They fall and clatter around him; he hears Gevanni's distinct footsteps stumble backwards away from the avalanche and the snap of Lidner's heels as she moves to steady him. Rester just stands, and watches the dominoes tumble over each other like _click-clack-click-clack-click._ Near likes that sound; it is much better than the last agonized gasps of criminals dying, better even than the crackle of the phone as it bounces halfway across the world to Japan. Somewhere, Kira is listening.

_Alright, _Near thinks. He twirls his hair; he is ready. Near has been ready for a very long time now.

_L number two. It's nice to meet you._

And even as he hears the gasps, hears the second L's bold-faced attempt to act confused _/Near is ever so slightly annoyed by this, for the second throne of L should've belonged to him and Mello, but now it has been stolen and they will have to settle for being the third/ _Near is ready. He will win the game. This time, it is Near with the extra row of pawns, the second deck of cards. Really, there was never a chance.

The second L is incompetent, Near thinks. But Near is competent. Mello is competent. Lidner, Gevanni, Rester, they are all competent.

And they will take Kira down.

* * *

This is a little thing I've been working on for some time now. It's very far from perfect, but I simply got tired of fiddling and tweaking it. Constructive crit is always appreciated.


End file.
